


All You Have to Do Is Call

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Lestrade Plays Guitar, Mrs. Hudson Sings, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
<p> </p>
<p>    <em><br/>If the sky above you<br/>should turn dark and full of clouds,<br/>and that old north wind should begin to blow,<br/>Keep your head together and call my name out loud,<br/>and soon I will be knocking upon your door.<br/>--Carole King </em><br/></p>
</div><p>This takes place sometime early in S1. Written in 2011 for Morgan Stuart</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Have to Do Is Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgan_Stuart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_Stuart/gifts).



John opened his eyes and kicked off the duvet. Voices. Off and on, fast and slow, an insistent buzz rising up through the floorboards. At first, in the chilly darkness of his room, he thought it might be a new nightmare that had awakened him. The cold sweats and nights spend thrashing and yelling were fewer now, but hadn't disappeared entirely. Having a flatmate seemed to have helped--knowing there was someone else around, even someone as odd and occasionally nightmarish himself as Sherlock.

Surely he was on the mend because he wasn't shaking, his throat wasn't parched and tight. He didn't feel perfectly right yet, though. Certainly, he still had a big hole in his life where his old military comrades had been. Sherlock might eventually become a real friend, John thought, but he wasn't sure he'd ever be the sort of mate John had had in the Army--someone who'd stay up all night with him telling lies and half-truths, drinking, playing cards . . . No, not bloody likely Sherlock would ever be that sort of bloke. But so what? His life had improved immeasurably anyway since moving to Baker Street.

Ella had noticed the change too. She'd beamed at him as he left his last session--damn disconcerting, that--and he knew she was crediting her own skills or his blogging therapy for diminishing the anxieties, the tremours, the sullen attitude. Fine. Let her believe whatever she liked. He knew it was the sound of Sherlock railing away at Lestrade on the phone or pacing the floor in the middle of the night that comforted him more than anything.

But the sounds he was hearing now were not Sherlock's doing. So what the bloody hell were they? He could have sworn a moment ago there was someone singing. Was Mrs Hudson having some sort of karaoke party downstairs at one in the morning?

He threw on his dressing gown and wandered about the flat, peering in every room, flicking on all the lights. No Sherlock. Just the usual cryptic, scrawled note.

_Gone to Barts. Must monitor cultures hourly._  
 _Back at noon tomorrow._  
 _Took your mobile._  
 _SH_  
 _PS: Buy sugar and formaldehyde._

_  
_

John opened the door and listened to the voices floating up the stairs. Tried to place them. He thought he heard Lestrade's teasing laughter. Plus another female voice besides Mrs Hudson'--but he couldn't tell who it was. Muffled, seemed generally cheery. Then there was music. A guitar and a piano.

He leaned against the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wondering whether he should investigate. Would he be making a pest of himself? Was it his job to keep an eye on Mrs Hudson? He'd grown so fond of her--despite all her insinuations about him being the "sitting-down type." _Hmph_. Proved her wrong about that, hadn't he? Though he hadn't disabused her of the notion that he and Sherlock were an adorable crime-fighting gay couple--and that John was the "wife," to boot. Honestly. He'd have to keep working on that one. Have to stop doing the damn shopping and laundry for Sherlock, then.

Well, it was none of his business whether she was having a party--and not inviting him or Sherlock. He'd just ignore it, make a cuppa, and see if he could manage to fall asleep . . .

But once his tea was ready, John decided to indulge his curiosity and stepped back out onto the landing--just to see if he could hear a few snippets of conversation. Immediately, his bare toe hit an exposed nail in the floorboards. He spilled his tea and uttered a few colourful curses. And the door to Mrs Hudson's flat flew open.

"John? John Watson, what are you doing up there? Are you all right?"

"Yes. Uh, yes, Mrs Hudson. Just fine . . . I . . . uh . . .‚"

"Come on down and join us, dear, if you're awake. We heard you stomping about."

"Oh. Uh. Okay. What . . . are you . . . ? I . . . I should get dressed. But I don't want to . . . er . . . crash the party, if . . ."

"Oh heavens, it's not a party, dear. It's our "Don' t Wake the Neighbors‚" Club. But here we've gone and broken the main rule by waking you up. Shame on us! Come down and we'll explain and give you some tea and cake. Greg Lestrade is here, and my friend Morgan, too--she's a doctor like you--works at the A & E. You can come in your dressing gown, if you like. We're none of us elegantly turned out tonight." She flashed her impish, sly grin, and did a spin to show off her own red fuzzy dressing gown, with what looked like a long white nightgown underneath.

"Oh. Okay, I guess." John was a bit confused. But now curiosity was winning out again. He really had to find out what the hell this "club" was all about, so he went back into the flat to put on socks, and then decided to add an old grey jumper over his pyjamas, for modesty's sake, before making his way down to Mrs Hudson's cozy sitting room.

Lestrade was tuning his guitar when John walked in and just nodded hello. He looked different--younger, John thought--wearing a black sweatshirt and blue jeans, with hair sticking out in every direction. Mrs. Hudson introduced Dr. Morgan Bell, pediatric specialist, a handsome blonde woman in her thirties, dressed in hospital scrubs and trainers. They made a little small talk while Mrs. Hudson fetched more tea and cake, and then John settled on the sofa--hoping someone would tell him what they were up to.

"John, dear, it was my bad dream that brought everyone here, so it's my choice of music." Mrs Hudson was perched at her old upright piano now, fingers poised to play. "I'm afraid I'm an old folkie, so I've forced poor Greg to play Carole King and James Taylor tonight, and he's been an awfully good sport. I'm melody and Morgan's harmony--do you sing, dear?"

"I . . . not really, no . . ."

"Well, you should try a little, anyway--it's great fun--or if you'd like to tap out a bit of the rhythm on the table or shake my tambourine, that's all right as well. But we need a male voice, and Greg is refusing to sing tonight, the silly git."

"I've got a cold, Martha--my voice sounds like a tin can full of gravel."

"It's sexy that way, Inspector," cooed Mrs Hudson.

"Oh you talk nothing but rubbish, woman," laughed Lestrade, showing a full grin John couldn't remember seeing before. "Come on, John. Sing, Watson! No use trying to get out of it now you're here." He gave John a wink and started strumming. John hummed quietly at first, but then the words started coming back from some far corner of his memory and he was able to do a passable version of "Fire and Rain‚" and "I Feel the Earth Move," and a damn good rendition, he thought, of "Carolina in My Mind," but he had to draw the line somewhere, and refused to join in for "Natural Woman."

They sang and giggled, and told a few stories about bands and singers they'd loved, for almost two hours. Mrs Hudson showed off her prize autographs spanning from Julie Andrews to Keith Richards. Lestrade and John diverged over the Temptations (John) and the Clash (Lestrade), but then came together again over David Bowie and Rockpile. Finally, Lestrade made noises saying he had to get a bit of sleep before work, and everyone mumbled agreement--reluctant to break up the ensemble. They helped Mrs. Hudson tidy the kitchen before taking their leave, and Lestrade offered John a handshake--first time he'd done that, as far as John could recall--and gave Dr. Bell a ride back to hospital.

As John thanked Mrs Hudson for the unexpected camaraderie and cake, he paused, unsure whether he should press for an answer to the question that was still nagging at him. With one foot out the door, he turned and asked in an almost apologetic whisper, "So . . . why? What was the occasion for the party, Mrs H? What did you mean by 'don't wake the neighbors club?'"

"Nightmares, dear. I know I should have just invited you to join us weeks ago, but I was afraid you might take offense--might think I was a nosey old lady," She smiled and squeezed his hands in her own. "Sherlock told me you have the same bit of trouble I have every once in awhile. I wake up in the night in a terrible fright, can't sleep at all--just thinking about the old days with my late husband, you know. And our Greg has a few cases that keep haunting him even after all these years--doesn't like to talk about them. We had a heart-to-heart a few years ago at hospital when we were on Sherlock-watch together. The poor boy almost killed himself more than once doing crazy things like leaping across rooftops." Now she scowled accusingly at John, and he gave her a sheepish, apologetic half-smile.

"Anyway, Morgan is a very dear friend who was in a women's support group with me after my husband's . . . uh . . . passing. Well, I realized about a year ago that all three of us have these unfortunate little screaming fits because of our dreadful nightmares-- and so . . ."

 

"So you get together to keep each other company when the nightmares return--so you won't wake the neighbors?"

"That's it, dear. Tonight I had a rough one, so I called in my friends when the darkness rolled in. I hope you'll consider calling us whenever you need the same in the future? We turn something awful into something quite nice indeed."

"Ah. Yeah. Yeah--that'd be just . . . that'd be great. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I . . . I don't know what to say."

"For now, just goodnight, dear."

"Right. Goodnight, then."

John felt a calm that had eluded him for months as he started walking back upstairs, and had a grin on his face that he couldn't wipe away. He turned as he heard Mrs. Hudson open the door to her flat again and peek out.

"John," she whispered, "just want you to know I really do mean it. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, love."

He nodded and laughed. "All I have to do is call. Got it. Thanks, Mrs Hudson. Now off to sleep with you." He blew her a kiss and they both slept soundly 'til morning.

 


End file.
